


"David Haller, Schizophrenic."

by Erisden



Category: Legion (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hearing Voices, Mental Disorder, Mental Instability, Overdosing, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, pre-Legion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 15:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19397479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erisden/pseuds/Erisden
Summary: "When I was in the psych ward, everybody was so sure the problem was neurological. Brain chemistry, serotonin. 'David Haller, schizophrenic.'"Quick study of the fragmented narrative.





	"David Haller, Schizophrenic."

######  _13 Years Old_

He dreams about flying.

Sometimes he watches the birds in the sky and wonders what it would be like to soar with the wind beneath his arms, air in his face, the ground half a mile beneath him. What it would be like to watch the trees from above, rather than below. He wonders what the birds would think of him. If they would think him strange, for wanting to be like them. A human who wants to be a bird.

He was born to be nothing else.

Birds have hollow bones. Weak, easily broken if they hit something too hard. One time, when he was eight, he’d slipped during a soccer match and broke his leg. He’s halfway there.

They’ll never accept him into their flocks. Not until he sprouts feathers and learns how to leave the nest.

He has a feather-shovel in his room. That’s what he calls the pocket-knife his dad gave him last year. “It’s a gift,” his dad had said, when he’d unwrapped the birthday gift. “My dad gave it to me when I was twelve. Now, I’m giving it to you.” The feather-shovel, meant to be used outside. He uses it inside. Digs it into his skin sometimes, hoping the bloodied holes in his skin are enough to let the seeds fall through and grow. Like arm hair, except they’re feathers. It hurts, but he’s found that’s better than listening to words. Physical pain makes them quieter.

He likes to sit out on the roof. His room is on the second story of their house. His window opens out to the roof. He can step out onto it if he wants to. Sometimes, when he wants to look at the stars, he climbs out his window and stays outside for hours. Most of the time, he still has homework to do.

His mother knows about it. She likes to warn him about how dangerous it is.

“David, don’t sit so close to the edge of the roof.”

But he wants to fly.

######  _15 Years Old_

There are bags under his eyes. He can see them if he looks in the mirror hard enough. He can see them if he doesn’t look in the mirror hard enough. They’re always there. Someone else made them.

He thinks he can see the Devil. Maybe he’s God on Earth. “What does the Devil look like?” his therapist asks, but he can only answer: “Yellow eyes.” He remembers what it looks like. He can’t form the words. He’s not allowed to.

The mirror shows the Devil, too. It sits in the corner of the tub. Today, Amy forgot to close the curtains. The room still smells like her lavender soap, clinging to the ceiling and the walls, but it can’t ward away the monster there, sitting in shadow, grinning at him, long fingers raised as though to wave at him. Maybe it’s beckoning him nearer. He doesn’t know which one it is.

He doesn’t listen.

Gas stations don’t ask why he buys them. He doesn’t tell them why. That these liquids, filled with chemicals that burn his nose and cloud his mind and make his temples pulse, stop the voices. Sometimes they stop on their own. They want to give him time to recover before they return and search the empty house, which he thinks is very kind of them.

Underneath the sink are messy rows of cleaner and detergent and soap. Dow. Joy. Plunge, with ammoni-oxide. C-Thru: his father wears glasses. Other things he doesn’t know the names of or how to use them. He doesn’t need to know how to use them.

They smell strong. He needs that. The fumes. They ward away the Devil.

“David, don’t huff the chemicals under the sink.”

His friends don’t tell him that. They want in too.

The Devil leaves him alone for a while.

######  _18 Years Old_

Hospitals are better than psych wards.

Lights are bright, and so are walls. The ceiling make it hard to breathe. There are chemicals in the hospital. He’s used to those. They remind him of home.

His life is in disarray because he isn’t in school anymore. His mother blames it on his father. Says the stars aren’t good for him, have never been good for him. If his father hadn’t taken him stargazing so much, maybe he would want to do something with his life. Amy left for college four years ago. Sometimes he calls her to let her know how he’s doing. She has a good life now.

They tell him to exercise. He thinks they’re telling him to lose weight.

The voices are loud.

He wants to lose more than weight.

“David, don’t swallow all your mother’s diet pills.”

Maybe the stars shouldn’t talk to him so much. Maybe the voices should be nicer.

He’s old enough to know they aren’t. They won’t be. People tell him the voices don’t want what he wants. He knows. They act like he doesn’t.

Therapists come and go. Some tell him to write down a list of things he likes about himself. Others tell him to tell someone when he feels bad, and never let himself be left alone.

His friends leave town for other places. The birds leave each winter and travel down south. He stays with his parents. They move. For him. Sometimes, he gets to see the inside of a new hospital.

Lots of times, he sees the inside of a new psych ward. They’re no more inviting than the others he’s been in.

Hospitals are better.

######  _23 Years Old_

He lives in the city now. Amy visits him every two days to check how he’s doing. She thinks he’s getting better now.

“David, maybe you should try college.”

The Devil never leaves him.

######  _26 Years Old_

He destroys kitchens with his mind.

They tell him it’s all in his head.

Philly wanted to fix him. She tells him she wants to fix him one night, softly, in the darkness of his one-bedroom apartment. 

That’s the night of their first fight.

Or maybe it’s their seventh fight. He can’t remember anymore. They have a lot of fights. At first, they’re small things. Her wanting to fix him when he knew he couldn’t be fixed, something she had tried to work on and ended up failing to do. Him wanting to make waffles and her telling him she should make them for him. Him saying something to himself when he doesn’t know she’s listening. All sorts of fights.

Amy thinks Philly will make him happy.

He still thinks about flying, but he’s older now. He can never join them. The feather-shovel is no longer a feather-shovel anymore. It had never worked. He still has no feathers. The marks have long since faded from his skin, but the memories are there. Sometimes he relives them again, but they don’t make him happy. Not anymore. They’re habits now, a routine.

A plastic cup sits at the edge of his bed. The rim is tinged with blue and teeth marks. They said he should be fixed: he listened. Nothing worked.

He thinks the walls will peel to pieces before he leaves this world.

######  _27 Years Old_

There is a rope in front of him. He wears it like a necklace.


End file.
